


Downtempo

by absolutelyCancerous (cal1brations)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Intercrural Sex, M/M, Morning Sex, yeah it's just kind of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1432696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cal1brations/pseuds/absolutelyCancerous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There isn’t anyone who can kiss quite like Norway can kiss, which is both awesome and extremely frustrating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Downtempo

Every time is just as thrilling as the very first time when Denmark rolls over in bed, sighing with consciousness, to see Norway bundled up in the covers beside him.

Norway sleeps a little bit like a cozy feline, knees nearly tucked up to his chest, hands pulled close to his heart, usually holding the sheets between his fingers and up against his throat. His hair is a pleasant kind of mess on the pillows, pooling gold, and Denmark’s fingers cannot resist the urge to touch, running his fingers over a prominent lick of blond hair that feels just as soft as it looks.

His lips are always parted when he sleeps, but he doesn’t exactly snore, so much as his deep breaths just happen to make noise as he breathes, slow and even. Denmark finds the rising and sinking of Norway’s side a little hypnotic, but that might be because he himself is still drowsy, taking time to wake up to the sight of (one very  _naked_ ) Norway in his bed.

Norway is a deep sleeper, or, at least, he doesn’t wake up very easily when it’s Denmark trying to rouse him; never has, never will. But, that’s okay for the moment, because Denmark can’t help but let his hand wander (innocently!), sliding beneath the sheets to brush carefully at Norway’s curled-in hands— a little warmer than Denmark’s, but much thinner, too. Denmark remembers—

He doesn’t want to remember, so he doesn’t, and runs his fingers slowly, feather-light, up Norway’s arms, tracing along paths he has known on this man for centuries. Paths he’s kissed over so very many times, paths he has missed hundreds of times before.

He shifts, and Denmark chews on his lip as he watches Norway’s eyes flicker a little behind closed lids, but he does not open them, and Denmark allows himself to relax. It’s not that he doesn’t want Norway to wake, but waking means getting up, which, in a very long turn of events usually, results in  _leaving_ , and Denmark doesn’t want to think about that part just yet.

He finds himself thinking of when he used to see Norway’s sleeping face almost every morning for a few centuries, back in the day, for whatever stupid reason his head thinks is appropriate. Centuries seem like they’d be hard to remember, but a century is nothing to Denmark, to any of them; to say “just the other day…” could easily translate to “remember that time in 1661 when…” when nations are speaking to each other, specifically the ones that have quite a few times under their belts. Like Denmark, like Norway.

Denmark remembers, with a little smile as he watches Norway curl himself up a little more comfortably on his side, that he is more grateful of those old times now, because they are no more.

They don’t discuss things like that, like unions, like alliances. Because Denmark can try to argue until he goes blue in the face, and Norway does this passive-aggressive thing with his rebuttals that makes Denmark want to (and he usually does) scream.

But he is older now. It’s only taken him since, like,  _forever_ to grow up (a little, at least). He’s physically a young man, and with humans, he can get away with lots of things, like forgetting to pay his electric bill and having to explain (beg) that, really, he just forgot to check the mail last week, he forgets all the time!

But, with nations, it’s different. Travesties are harder to brush off than a late payment— late payments alone have put strains on plenty of relationships between many of them. Things that will be forgotten and ignored in human lives will forever be part of a nation’s long eternity, things to fester over and lament—

It’s too early to think in such philosophical terms.

The blinds aren’t closed all the way, which makes Denmark’s face screw up in a squint when the golden slants of sunlight reach them over the sheets, distorted by the figures of himself and Norway under the covers. The light stripes across Norway’s pale face in a way that interests Denmark, and he marvels a little at how other-worldly Norway can look in slumber— even more than he usually does, he notes with a little smirk. There’s something about Norway’s constant heavy stare that alludes to just that—

Oh. That heavy stare Denmark finds himself currently acquainted with once more. Good. Norway looks _fantastic_ watching Denmark carefully curl himself closer, he thinks with a wide smile, pressing his forehead to Norway’s shoulder once they’re close once more.

“Mornin’.”

Norway makes a quiet yawn, but he doesn’t shove Denmark away from him, which is a very nice way to start the morning indeed. “Mmn. Morning.”

Denmark can’t help the little sigh he gives— he  _loves_ Norway’s Danish, obviously loves Danish all-around, but it sounds so  _unique_ from him that Denmark doesn’t even notice when he turns his head up to kiss Norway’s mouth to eagerly approve the accented statement.

When their lips part, after Denmark gets in a little nip or several, Norway just stares at him for a long moment, observing, holding his cheeks, assuring he will not be able to turn away— not that Denmark would, even if he wanted to.

“You have no self-control whatsoever,” Norway says, looks a little bored, but he kind of always looks like that, it’s the neutral-Norway setting.

Denmark grins, shrugging his shoulders as he slides one large hand down Norway’s front, rubbing smoothly just under Norway’s navel, ignoring the very attentive bit of Norway just under his wrist, which makes Norway go a little red in the face. He feels his own cock stirring a little at the sight.

“ _Well_ ,” Denmark drawls with a shit-eating grin, rolling his eyes pleasingly as he pulls Norway a little closer, even brushes the inside of his wrist against the warmth of Norway’s cock as invitation, “I guess I could try to exercise a  _little_ bit—”

But before he can finish, Norway is kissing him, hard and hungry, and Denmark loves the way Norway’s teeth feel digging into his lower lip and tugging so precisely. There isn’t anyone who can kiss quite like Norway can kiss, which is both awesome and extremely frustrating.

Norway’s legs automatically spread wide when Denmark’s hand knowingly wraps around his cock, the assuring pressure of his grip enough to make Norway sigh shakily, threading his thin, strong fingers through Denmark’s wild hair in order to anchor him close, encourage him not to stop.

The hands in Denmark’s hair tug fairly hard when the freckled Dane does indeed stop, but not completely, only to nearly hang off the edge of the damn bed (effectively pinning Norway down with his chest in the process, which is extremely uncomfortable; Denmark is  _heavy_ ) to root around in the bedside table and sit up when he finally grabs his prize, making sure to kiss absolutely all over Norway’s scowling face in apology for crushing him.

“You couldn’t have just asked me to move?”

Denmark sticks out his tongue in jest, smiling around the action of his tongue poking out his mouth. “I didn’t think you stuffed the lube in the very back of the drawer— what, were you trying to  _hide_ it from me?”

Norway rolls his eyes at the accusation— he was  _not_ — watching Denmark slick his hands with the lubricant and warming it up; Denmark’s generally pretty thorough about warming it up, which is a little bit considerate, maybe even sweet, Norway thinks silently.

“Do you have to make such an angry face, Nor? I’m about to  _rock your world_ , excuse you!”

Norway blinks a little, feels that his face is kind of in a scowl from his spacing-out, but Denmark’s just smiling and hanging over him, hands poised just under his crotch, at the tops of his thighs. He wonders when Denmark managed to get in between his legs, but doesn’t voice any protest, because Denmark’s lube-slick hands are poised and ready to touch his skin.

“ _That’s_  better!” He encourages, though Norway makes a point of glaring at the comment, just for the principal of the thing. Denmark laughs, letting his hands gently press to the soft skin of Norway’s inner thighs. Like only an expert of a person can, Denmark slowly slicks Norway’s inner thighs, massaging with his thumbs as he spreads the warm substance against such unbelievably soft thighs, smiling at the sight of Norway tucking his head to his shoulder, teeth digging into his lip as he cants his hips up eagerly.

“Take it  _easy_ ,” Denmark says gently, leaning over to press a few thousand kisses to Norway’s chest and shoulders, open-mouthed and slow. His thumbs knead him as slow as his lips kiss him, and Norway groans at the devoted attentions, long and low in his throat.

When Denmark seems to deem his work acceptable, he gives Norway’s cock a few strokes with one slick hand before he sits back and pats Norway’s thigh (which still leaves a faint handprint of lube on his leg, which is gross), smiling as he asks him to turn on his side. Norway complies, because he’s not about to be impossible when the promise of release is right before him; he’s not an  _idiot_.

Denmark makes sure to slick his cock up a bit as well, though he seems to enjoy applying the lube too much for Norway’s liking— his eyes rolling back into his head as he strokes himself is enough to make Norway clear his throat loudly, reminding Denmark of his company. Snickering under his breath, Denmark moves beside Norway, gently nudging him to lie on his side again, since it took apparently rolling onto his back to glare at Denmark’s little show. Nonetheless, Norway sighs a little when Denmark’s mouth is at the back of his neck, breath hot against his skin. Slowly, he lines himself up with the part of Norway’s warm, slick thighs, and wastes no time as he presses forward, sealed to Norway from head to toe. He tucks his hands around Norway, one splayed wide over his belly to keep Norway pressed up against him, the other going to wrap around Norway’s aching prick, pumping him just like before.

Norway rolls his hips back into Denmark’s, sighing out his delight. No matter which way his hips rock, he’s getting all of Denmark’s attention, from the hand fisting his cock and Denmark’s dick between his thighs, nudging against his balls every now and again. He also takes advantage of Norway’s neck right at his face, peppering him in nips and kisses, even going as far to whisper at his ear about oh god, how good he feels, he’s so warm, he’s just  _perfect_.

Norway’s breathing hitches when Demark does that wonderful thing with his thumb at the slit, and his orgasm seems to catch him by surprise at that point, his thighs squeezing tight as he spills into Denmark’s hand, the squeeze of his legs in euphoria making Denmark groan gratuitously. Norway writhes in delight, wants something to press against, and reaches back to grab Denmark by the ass, holding them together as he sighs all high-pitched and breathy, red in the face from both exertion and Denmark’s obscenities grunted into his ear.

Denmark grinds against him, when he’s held in place. Norway keeps his legs tight together for him to finish between, although his thighs twitch a little, but that only makes Denmark splutter delightedly. It takes a little bit, but Norway can feel when Denmark is finished, going taut against him and arching his hips almost painfully up against Norway’s ass, gasping out his name like it’s the only thing he knows of— Norway, Norway,  _Norway_.

There’s awhile after that where neither of them really move, just breath and relax. Denmark presses his lips to Norway’s shoulder, rubbing gentle circles against his hip as they lie together. Eventually, however, the arm that Denmark had tucked under Norway’s side, against the bed, goes to sleep, and he has to ask (beg and yell a little) for Norway to get off it so he can massage blood flow back into his fingertips.

Norway sits up in the bed then, sheets pooling at his lap as he stretches. Denmark watches him fondly, rubbing at his tingling hand, and tells him, “You look pretty good with bedhead.”

“You look pretty good with a fist in your face,” Norway says, as easily as one says that the sky is blue, not missing a beat.

Denmark laughs at that, anyway. He watches Norway’s expression go a little towards sour when he moves to itch his thigh, getting remains of oily lube on his fingers, which Denmark admits, isn’t really a nice feeling— he’s certainly familiar with it, too.

Norway gets up from the bed, and Denmark whistles at his nakedness, which earns him an annoyed eye-roll, which is kind of impressive, because there are times where he gets a nice punch in the chest for things like that.

“Where ya goin’, gorgeous?” Denmark asks, teasing, pulling himself to sit up. He almost runs his hands through his hair, but still feels a hint of slickness on his hands from earlier, and wisely decides against it.

Norway is already at the door to the bathroom, throwing an easy glance to Denmark on the bed. “ _I’m_  taking a shower. It wouldn’t kill you to make coffee in the meantime.”

“It might kill me,” Denmark tries to counter, and ends up throwing his head back in a laugh when Norway flips him off as he steps into the bathroom and closes the door behind him with a tiny click of the lock in afterthought.

Denmark moves to lie back down, yawning and cracking his back loudly as he stretches against the mattress. However, Norway knows him much too well, and he cracks the door open just a tad after starting the water, letting steam seep out from the bathroom.

“I’ll let this water run cold.”

"That only hurts you, though—

"Get  _up_.”

“Damn, you sure know how to get a guy  _outta_  bed, huh, Nor?” Denmark grins, and doesn’t miss the eyeroll Norway performs, truly dramatic, before he closes the door again.

Nonetheless, the threat is enough to get Denmark sitting up again, yawning a few million times as he finds a pair of flannel bottoms to tug on, decides it’s kind of cold and digs up a shirt to slip on, too. Figures he’ll be a good host and sets out some clothes for Norway to wear, seeing as he’s only got a button-up and slacks from last night, which are sitting in a very crumpled pile at the foot of the bed.

He’s just putting sugar in their steaming coffee mugs when Norway practically fucking glides past him, expertly scooping up his mug and just out of reach from Denmark’s arm as he takes a little sip. His hair is still dripping at the tips, wet spots soaking into the collar of Denmark’s shirt on his back, but it’s a good look for him.

They stand at the counter, sated and content as they sip at their coffee, staring out Denmark’s kitchen window.

Sometimes, Norway thinks with his lips pressed to the rim of his mug, the mug always lets him use for whatever stupid reason Norway doesn’t care about, it’s kind of nice when they do things like this (read: when Denmark isn’t being a fucking child and can just shut up for a minute or two like the twenty-something he should act like, after a few  _centuries_ of being a twenty-something).

Either way, Denmark couldn’t be more content, leaning against the counter with his head resting on Norway’s shoulder, mug of coffee perched at his lips as he watches the sky brighten with the passing morning.


End file.
